


I'd break the back of love for you

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: And ex-girlfriends, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Villainy, Darkness AND fluff, Established Relationship, Found Family, Jack Has Issues, Jack being Jack, M/M, Mentions of Jack's wife, Possessive Behavior, Rhys is everything pure and good in this world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: The past comes crashing down on Jack and all he can hear is the screams. Thank God for Rhys, who always knows how to soothe his pain, drop by drop.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 172





	I'd break the back of love for you

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a character study and then went wild. I'm pretty darn proud of it and hope you will enjoy it too! 
> 
> I liked how Jack called his wife "honey" in the (utterly fucking HEARTBREAKING) BL3 side-mission, _Childhood's End_ , and even though I know it's not her name, I wrote him thinking of her that way. <3
> 
> Title is taken from Placebo's incredible _Post Blue_.

Jack loves Rhys with a madman’s intensity, singularly-focused and possessive.

His “I love you” is both promise and threat. Raw, dominating words meant to tattoo his feelings deep onto Rhys’ bones. He wants to bind the otherwise independent and headstrong young man to him with fingers dug deep into his heart.

Rhys’ love, by contrast, is like a cool, deep river that Jack stands waist-deep in. It rushes around him, cleanses him, refreshes him. And when Jack is at his worst, cutting and biting and slashing at all around him, Rhys is there, a gentle restraint turning aside the fury, cooling the molten rock, and, drop-by-drop, wearing down the mean and jagged pieces.

But Jack can’t let himself relax, not entirely. ’Cause what happens if the current carries him away and then strands him on a sandbar, leaving him to watch as the river changes course and flows away from him? That thought makes him hold on brutally tight, leaving fingerprints as bruises on Rhys’ soul.

He dreamed about his wife again last night. And about Angel. About _before_. The surest predictor that the day will be hellish. And wouldn’t you know it? Jack’s mood is black as pitch. 

He runs his fingers along the still-warm barrel of his gun. The woman’s body is slumped on the floor, unnaturally broken, her blood trailed down the glass. Her crime? She dared speak to him...as if she knew _anything_ about his life. The elevator dings and Jack steps out. He doesn’t bother calling the janitorial staff to come clean up, all that screaming is sure to get someone’s attention.

By the end of the day more will die, some deserving, others less so. But, on a day like today, Jack could vent the whole of Helios into space and it still wouldn’t be enough. Everyone except Rhys. 

He would fill the halls with the blood of every employee. They mean nothing to him, they are replaceable. But there’s no substitute for Rhys’ goofy smile, or the way his hands come to rest lightly on Jack’s shoulders when Jack’s stressed.

He can’t lose those things, can’t imagine how he’d _breathe_ if he loses Rhys.

When Honey died… Jack learned first hand what it was like to get spaced, to have the cold, hard vacuum suck the breath from your lungs, all semblance of peace, lost forever. And then he felt _nothing_. He looked at his precious daughter and he thought _murderer_ and he couldn’t get the thought out of his head. All the while, he was _desperate_ to protect her from the galaxy, desperate to keep the Bandits away. Desperate to save her from herself.

In a sense, Jack lost his daughter the same day he lost his wife.

There’ve been other women since Honey. Most without names, some with. Moxxi, Nisha… Brief moments of sex and sweet feminine scents that didn’t so much break him out of his isolation as perfume it. The betrayal and loss stung, but a minor pain, like a bee. Nothing compared to what Jack has been through.

And then, out of nowhere, came Rhys.

Rhys with his long limbs and his beautiful face and his terrible fashion sense and his cunning and drive, undermined by a heart that’s just too fucking pure for Hyperion. He’s too clever for middle management, not savage enough to advance farther. And he refuses—staunchly—to let Jack promote him to Vice President. That’s one of the very few things Rhys denies him.

It’s led to pitched battles, ugly fights full of words lobbed like grenades and rough sex. Then everything eases and the kisses are gentle, less biting, and Rhys, once again, brings Jack back to center.

By the time Jack gets home this evening he’s lost track of the day’s kill count. At some point it stopped being fun and became an over-scratched itch, raw and bleeding, compulsive. His sneakers are stained a cheery, garish red, he’ll have to scrub the mask so it doesn’t start to smell, and his sweater is ruined, for sure. He walks straight past Rhys who is cooking dinner and heads to the bathroom, his nerves sparking like live wires.

He kicks off his shoes and he steps into the shower fully dressed. One gesture turns the water on, and the next raises the temperature to blisteringly hot. He leans heavily against the large wall of screens. Jack blinks hazily, staring blankly at the various media he’s programmed to display when he showers: analyst reports, camera feeds, Hyperion propaganda videos, even the homemade porn of him and Rhys that he plays on a loop just to annoy Rhysie.

Even if the sound weren’t muted, he still wouldn’t be able to hear it. His head is filled with Honey’s _scream_. The one, shattered cry so full of pain and panic, and then _nothing._ Deathly silence. It was over in an instant and he was crying out for her and babbling and clutching her lifeless body. But she was _gone_. And she’s still gone and no power in the galaxy can bring her back.

The spray of the shower washes away any evidence of tears.

“Jack?” Rhys’ voice is gentle, concerned, as he enters the bathroom. A wave of chilly air rushes in. 

Rhys doesn’t ask if he’s okay or waste any breath on empty, pointless questions. Instead, he steps into the shower. He wraps his arms around Jack’s waist and pulls him flush against him. “It’s gonna be alright,” Rhys promises.

Slowly, he turns Jack in his arms, the water sluicing over them both, their clothing soaking and weighing them down. With practiced hands, Rhys begins to undress Jack, layer by layer, dropping each sopping article of clothing behind him until he’s uncovered hard, tan skin and a roadmap of scars. Years of abuse and violence form a lattice crisscrossing his body. Rhys only knows a few of the stories, because Jack fucking hates to remember. Somehow, he doesn’t flinch when Rhys touches them—tracing gently and soothing the years’ old ache.

When Jack shows no sign of interest in undressing Rhys in return, the man unbuttons his own drenched shirt, unzips his pants, steps out of his underwear. All the while, he stares at Jack with kind eyes and places soft kisses on his neck and shoulders. He knows enough not to reach for the clasps on Jack’s mask—not when Jack is so close to lashing out.

Jack needs to be _Handsome_ for Rhys, just now.

“I want to fuck you,” Jack growls and digs his fingers into Rhys’ sharp hips, grinding against him until they both grow hard. 

That wasn’t what he wants to say. He wants to say _Let me take you to bed… I’ll make love to you… Worship every inch of your body_ … But his heart is ugly and festering and all he has to give is _fucking_. So he says again, “Let me fuck you.”

It’s not a question, but Rhys isn’t about to deny him.

The first time they fucked was on Jack’s desk.

He’d been watching Rhys for a while and a flirtation had started up over ECHO messages. Banter. It was cute, really, and it passed the time. Rhys was always so flustered and quick to share, even admitting embarrassing things like his Handsome Jack poster collection and his fantasy that, if he bought a pair of skag skin boots, he might catch Jack’s eye. There was something about it that was _charming_ rather than obnoxious. He’d been so earnest and unafraid.

They’d only met in person once during that time—for dinner—and Rhys had chatted too much and smiled too much and utterly endeared Jack. He’d wanted to bed him that night, but he’d held off, delayed gratification, something he’s never been particularly good at.

Their flirty conversations became more serious, more intimate, with Rhys asking things about Jack that no one had ever asked before—or maybe he just asked them in ways that made Jack want to answer. _Are you alright?_ Such an _easy_ question to laugh off. Alright? Of course he’s alright, he’s Handsome-Goddamn-Jack. Except no. No, he’s _never_ been alright. Alright was beaten out of him as a child. Jack’s all demon grins and excess, but inside he’s hollow.

And for the first time in his life, Jack answered the question honestly.

_Nah. Nah, Rhysie. I’m not._

It was almost three months into their strange little relationship when Jack finally invited Rhys up to his office. Poured him a drink. Turned on the good ol’ Handsome Jack charm Rhys’d lowered his head, cheeks burning, and murmured into his glass. “I don’t do this… This isn’t like me.”

“Do what?” Jack had purred, catching Rhys under the chin and tilting his face up. He drank deep of the look in Rhys’ eyes. Uncertain but not fearful. “Have drinks with the CEO of Hyperion in his private office?”

Rhys had swallowed and Jack watched the Adam’s apple bob.

“Let myself get so close to falling in love…”

Jack couldn’t have stopped himself from kissing Rhys if it meant saving Hyperion. He couldn’t have stopped for _anything_. And then kissing turned to pawing hands and he made short work of Rhys’ pants. And Rhys was groaning and Jack must have been too, because the sound was harmonious. And Rhys told Jack he’d never been with a man before and that was _it_. Being Rhysie’s first time, well, that made up his mind.

He was never letting this kid go. Ever.

In a way, Jack regrets that it didn’t happen in his bed, that it wasn’t slow and gentle and drawn-out, but instead, fast and spit-slicked and underprepared. Rhys deserved better for their first time. And yet, Jack’d waited so damn long, there was no stopping him as he thrust into Rhys.

“Jack?” Rhys asks and Jack blinks. Rhys’ neck is marked with dark maroon hickeys and bite marks—little brands strung along his tattoo to cover his throat and shoulder. He doesn’t even remember sucking on Rhys’ skin.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Rhys says, “but you’re far away. Come back to me. Please.”

Jack cuts the water and Rhys reaches for a towel, drying them both off and leaving their clothing in a heap in the back of the shower. He steps out and takes Jack’s hand, guiding him out of the bathroom, never taking his eyes off of Jack.

“If I lose you—”

“You aren’t going to,” Rhys interrupts, swearing it lowly.

“ _If I lose you_ ,” Jack says again, firmer this time, “I will _burn this space station to cinders_.”

Rhys’ expression shifts and Jack hates how sad he looks. He nuzzles into Rhys’ touch as Rhys gently cups his cheek, but he doesn’t take back the words. He won’t lie to the kid. If he lost Rhys, he would destroy everything he’d built. Because he can’t do it again. Can’t...can’t return to the void, after all the light Rhys has brought into his life.

“If you _leave me_ —”

“I’m not going _anywhere_ , Jack,” he says. “I won’t betray you, I won’t leave you.”

Jack crowds Rhys, walking him backward the few steps to the bed and pushing him down so that he bounces slightly as his butt hits the mattress. 

“I don’t want to have to kill you, Rhysie. Not you. Please don’t make me.”

Rhys reaches up and fists his cybernetic hand in Jack’s hair, pulling him close. His eyes are bright and clear as he says, “Don’t threaten me, Jack.”

Jack locks his jaw, still blisteringly angry at the universe, but he doesn’t want to fight with Rhys.

Rhys tightens his grip on Jack’s hair and stretches up, pressing a promising kiss against his lips. When he speaks, his voice is firm, brooking no argument. “You _cheapen_ everything we have by threatening me, Jack. I don’t stay because I’m afraid of the Tenacious Factulizer or whatever damn gun you’re carrying this week.” After another sharp tug that makes Jack wince, he releases the fistful of hair and trails his hand down Jack’s neck, over his shoulder, and down his arm. Then he captures Jack’s hand and pulls it to his lips, gently kissing his fingertips before guiding the hand to his neck.

Jack hesitates, uncertain, but Rhys wraps the fingers closed around his throat. The look he gives Jack is defiant and fearless. “I’m not _afraid_ of you, Jack.” When he speaks, Jack can feel words reverberating through his palm. “I trust you won’t hurt me. I _know_ you won’t hurt me.”

Jack shudders out a breath. It would be so easy to _squeeze_. To crush that delicate neck. But that’s all Jack ever does, right? Break things? And this particular ‘thing’ is far too precious to harm, even in his darkest mood. He slowly pulls back his hand.

“I want an apology,” Rhys says stubbornly, and when Jack opens his mouth to protest, Rhys is quick to say, “Not for the threat, for thinking I would leave you. I’ve done _everything_ , Jack, I’ve made it crystal clear that I _love you_ and _you’re my world_ and I _belong_ to you.”

Rhys is beautiful when he’s angry. Pink stains his cheeks, his caramel-colored eye glints while the ECHO eye glows, unconsciously activated. He glares and his bottom lip pushes out a few millimeters into the tiniest pout. It’s even more marvelous because he’s completely naked, bared before Jack.

“I’m sorry, Kitten,” Jack says softly, with none of his usual snide tone.

 _Kitten, Pumpkin, Kiddo, Princess, Baby…_ He doesn’t have a unique endearment for Rhysie. But his _tone_ is different with Rhys. He says these things with love in his voice.

“You know I’m not leaving?”

“I’ll... _try_...to remember it.” It’s the best he can offer without lying and he waits and watches to see if it’ll be enough for Rhys this time. 

After a moment, Rhys’ look softens, the glow of the ECHO eye ebbs, and he wraps his legs around Jack’s waist pulling him in close. Jack’s half-hard cock is caught between their bodies and it twitches enthusiastically when Rhys kisses him.

“I’ll keep reminding you,” Rhys promises against his lips. 

The kiss deepens, the tangle of their tongues a war for dominance. Jack could kiss Rhys forever. Sometimes he calls the man up to his office on lunch break, pulling him away from his friends, and he puts Rhys in his lap and they kiss until they can’t breathe and they’re a little stupid and giddy from lack of oxygen. Sometimes he’ll rub Rhys through his trousers, fondling him until he’s horny and desperate, refusing to let him get off—that anticipation makes the sex _so much better_ when they finally get home. 

“Didn’t you say something about fucking me?” Rhys groans, pushing himself back along the bed with his arms and dragging Jack along with him.

“Vaguely recall something like that,” Jack agrees hungrily, and leans back on his knees, Rhys’ legs still wrapped around him. It’s a damn nice view, a sea of perfect, flushed skin in front of him. He loves the way Rhys is bowed slightly in the middle. 

Jack huffs a chuckle of appreciation and reaches out to trace a pattern along the blue tattoo that covers Rhys left pec and flesh arm. He flicks the hardened nub of Rhys’ nipple.

“You’re so goddamn gorgeous, Pumpkin.”

Rhys’ smile is sweet, but then Jack shifts against him, dragging his hard cock along the cleft of Rhys’ ass and all that sweetness melts into something heavy-lidded and wanton.

“You like that, Kiddo?” Jack asks and does it again. This time he wraps his large hand around Rhys, teasing him up to full hardness, thumbing through the bead of precum that adorns the tip. Rhys parts his lips and Jack reaches out, pressing his thumb against the man’s tongue and groaning when Rhys sucks on it. “ _Fuck_ ,” he grinds out between his teeth. “Tell me how you want it, Rhysie. Spit? Lube?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Rhys says, but tightens his legs then. “As long as you’re in me in the next five minutes, I don’t care how you do it.”

Jack grins at that and motions for Rhys to dig in the drawer next to the bed. He reluctantly untangles his legs from around Jack’s waist and rolls over, grappling in the drawer for lubricant. He’s about to turn back over when Jack grabs him by one skinny ankle and drags him across the bed.

Rhys yelps and then makes a low, pleased noise as Jack guides him up onto all fours.

“Been a while,” Rhys says, looking over his shoulder.

There’s a reason for that. Usually, Jack likes looking at Rhys when he comes in him, likes to watch the desperate faces Rhys makes, likes knowing _he’s_ the cause. But there’s too much buzzing noise in Jack’s brain today—and he needs to burn it out of his system. He’s not going to be gentle and he doesn’t think he can bear to see the pain in Rhys’ eyes, if he accidentally hurts him.

Jack takes the lube and pops the top, squeezing out a filthy amount onto his fingers.

“Gonna have to tell me if you want me to stop.” His voice is flat, the most obvious indicator of the lengths he’s going to, to restrain himself. He tilts Rhys’ hips up slightly, slides slick fingers between the man’s cheeks, seeking out entry. “Trusting you on this, Rhysie.”

“I will,” Rhys promises.

“Just say ‘stop,’” Jack repeats, slowly pushing two fingers inside him. Rhys hisses.

And he’ll stop. Surely. He has before.

He’ll drag himself off of Rhys and walk into the living room and put his fist through the wall, but he’ll stop. And after he breaks his knuckles, he’ll come back to bed and he’ll let Rhys hold him while his blood stains the sheets.

But it’s not time for that.

Rhys groans, the sound rich and mahogany-tinged.

“Spread your legs a little wider—yeah, that’s good.”

Rhys is good at taking direction.

Rhys is good at taking Jack.

“Jack…” Rhys moans.

“I know, Baby, I gotcha.” And he curls his fingers, feeling around in the tight heat until he finds that spot Rhys likes so much. He knows he’s hit it dead on when Rhys presses back. He pulls himself forward and pushes back, fucking himself on Jack’s fingers.

He lets Rhys have his fun for a little while, eventually adding a third finger. He knows from experience that if he lets the kid go long enough, all it’ll take is a little reach-around, three strokes, tops, and he’ll shoot off. And a pliant, spent Rhys might be good to hold, but he’s no fun to fuck. He’s too lazy and loose. Like screwing a pile of warm blankets. 

So Jack pulls out his fingers and wipes them on Rhys’ leg and he spreads Rhys’ cheeks with his thumbs and admires the inviting gape.

“Think you’re ready?”

“Yes,” Rhys breathes, desperate. “Yes, _please_.”

Jack lines up their bodies, hesitating for just a moment—a moment spent teetering on the edge of black despair and pleasure—and then he shoves himself in to the hilt and feels like a goddamn champion for the ecstatic groan he tears from Rhys.

He doesn’t take his time.

He doesn’t draw this out.

Jack pounds into Rhys, each thrust shoving him a little further up the bed, so he has to move with him, chase after him by inches. He claws at Rhys’ hips and gathers him up, pulling him back so that they’re both up on their knees and Rhys is flush with his body. His head falls back on Jack’s shoulder.

Rhys strokes himself in time with the rhythm of Jack’s thrusting.

Jack knows he’s going to explode before Rhys can get there and he should care more about that than he does. He’ll be a better lover tomorrow. Tonight all he can do is—

“God-fucking-dammit, Kitten,” Jack groans and bucks up hard, grinding himself against Rhys’ ass, coming inside of him. He bites Rhys’ shoulder hard enough to draw blood and Rhys pumps his cock for another desperate thirty seconds, begging incomprehensibly until he comes.

Jack unclamps his teeth, kisses the broken skin, watches with pleasure as Rhys splatters the headboard.

They collapse onto the covers together, sweaty and spent.

“New record for distance there. You got real potential, Kid,” Jack jokes with a sigh, and Rhys turns his head and grins.

“You gonna take me out on tour?”

“No goddamn way. Murder really drives down ticket sales.”

“Murder?”

“You think I’d leave anyone alive long enough to watch you shoot off?”

Rhys’ beams at him. 

A comfortable silence extends between them and finally— _finally_ —Jack can breathe again, the relentless pressure in his chest letting up, the ugliness that twisted itself around his soul like creeping vines, burned away down to the roots. 

A little while later, he and Rhys move to the clean side of the bed, leaving the mess for the morning and Jack holds Rhys to him, breathing in his love, whispering praise. He cards his fingers through Rhys’ hair, kisses all the marks he left on his neck. Nuzzles the already bruising teeth marks on his shoulder.

Rhys loves him, and for the moment, Handsome Jack knows it with capital letters, feels it branded on his heart. 

“I killed a lot of people today,” he murmurs in the still after-moments.

“Are you confessing or bragging?” Rhys asks quietly, turning over in his arms to face Jack. His eyelids are heavy with sleep, half-closed as he struggles not to drift off.

“I don’t know.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“What about it?” Jack asks.

“Are you going to kill anyone tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” he says.

“Will they deserve it?”

Jack hums lightly. “Not sure, Kitten. Probably.”

Rhys’s dark lashes touch his cheeks then and Jack gently strokes his hair. “Make good choices, Jack,” he murmurs before his breath begins to even out.

For a while, Jack just watches him and then he leans forward and places a kiss on Rhys’ forehead. “Already did.”

<<< >>>

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback makes Cosmo *blush* and *swoon*! Please consider letting me know what you think!
> 
> And I'm on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cosmo-is-beink-melon) <3


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